February 22, 2011

I’m playing with the kitten. She’s leaping and tumbling over herself; sometimes she can’t run fast enough to catch the feathery toy I taunt her with. I smile, empathizing from my experience in impossible scenes. My kitty is learning to jump higher, run faster, hunt better. She’s an amazing little creature, whether she catches the feathery-toy or not; even when she abandons the game in favour of pettings and a nap. It’s play, it’s fun, I love her. I do not care if she’s spectacular, I care that she’s engaged and happy and that we connect.

This reassures me. I expect my brother has higher bars for a partner than a pet, but he’s playing with a little sister whose limits and rates of growth he understands, and he won’t stop loving me if I’m imperfect or outdone, if I can’t (yet? ever?) grasp the feathery-toys he dangles above me.

October 14, 2010

Two aperitif glasses, once filled with blood & Haiku, are now used over & over in a ritual the length of one bottle. It takes ten days. At the end are slices of brandy-drenched pear, with vanilla ice cream to cut the alcohol sting.

We nudge the kitten (Maize) away from it, laughing; I’m sitting on the counter in a polka-dot dress, legs wrapped around you.
Maize is pushed away again when she noses about my thighs, curious what your fingers are doing inside of me; she curls on my chest as waves of pleasure come. The kitten is undeterred by orgasm. We’re probably pretty animal at that moment, so it’s okay.

You’re so attuned to my blood, hand pulling continuous waves from me like you’re spinning an infinite thread from the rough chaos I carry within, and taking it into yourself. Like a god, kneeling over me, built strongly; working magicks with my come and your hands and the power of being able to grant pleasure.